


The Weather Outside is Frightful (And the Company Inside is Worse)

by Margo_Kim



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Cold Weather, Early in Canon, Frenemies, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Seasonal, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margo_Kim/pseuds/Margo_Kim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That first winter, Hamilton came over every other week or so, when he couldn’t find one of his gang to entertain him or the ladies of the city had all closed their door in his face or his studies were going too gallingly slow to warrant wasting an evening on them. Or sometimes, Aaron wouldn’t be Hamilton’s fourth or fifth choice of entertainment but his first, and on those nights, Hamilton beat on Aaron’s door with a fire that inured him against the freezing weather. More or less, anyway. Aaron spent the beginning parts of a few evenings fiercely rubbing feeling back into Hamilton’s feet and giving a lecture on proper deportment in the New York winter that usually ended with Aaron spluttering, “Just wear better fucking socks, man!” as Hamilton tried to shove his freezing toes against Aaron’s neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weather Outside is Frightful (And the Company Inside is Worse)

There's nothing like winter in the city, when the temperature drops until each morning you wash your face with a chunk of ice and your balls retract until you start thinking of barging into whatever grand churches the Protestants hadn't gotten their hands on and announcing to the choir that you'd be happy to sing castrato for them. Aaron didn't much think about the cold, except in the way that all New Englanders did, to fiercely bitch and moan about it with those who’d endured it before and to ruthlessly mock any outsiders who tried to do the same. Aaron was particularly fond of the Virginians who'd come fresh to New York City in time to freeze to death. It struck him as hilariously cruel that those poor bastards had dragged themselves out of their swamp only to reach the frozen tundra.

Still, Virginia may have been a hot, sweaty, hellscape of regret and tobacco, but—if Aaron was going to judge exclusively by Hamilton’s reaction to winter—it had nothing on the Caribbean.

"Jesus Christ!" Hamilton said as he burst in Aaron's parlor. The blasphemy was the most devout thing that Aaron had ever heard Hamilton utter, the creole being the sort of man fostered by the Enlightenment who worshipped nothing so much as his own cleverness. "It's colder than Satan's asshole out there."

"I would have thought that location to be sweltering," Aaron replied as Hamilton brushed snow off his coat and onto Aaron's carpeting.

"Dante. Duh. Though I guess with your family you opt for more of the hellfire imagery."

"Can't have fire and brimstone without some fire," Aaron said. Which reminded him, and he went over the fireplace to prod the flames to life.

Hamilton joined him by his side, clearly keen to shiver closer to the warmth. "God preserve me," he muttered. "I'm not making it through the winter."

Aaron chuckled. "Welcome to New York. Enjoy your stay."

"Welcome to your home, you mean," Hamilton said. "You still haven't expressed your happy surprise that I'm here."

"Was I supposed to do that before or after you marched in uninvited?”

"I was freezing to death. Yours is the only house in the area that I know. Was I supposed to die in the cold, Burr? Would you leave a fellow patriot to perish in the winter winds while inside you remained bundled and warm? Upon your honor, Sir, I know your conscience as a Christian would not allow it."

"Do you talk just to talk?" Aaron asked, feeling despite himself genuinely curious.

Hamilton grinned which was a little charming and mostly frightening. "I need to do enough talking for the both of us. And you still haven't welcomed me."

"Welcome," Aaron said dryly.

"Thank you, kind sir. You can't imagine how welcomed I feel, clasped in the warmth of your bosom. Metaphorically, of course, though the metaphor refers to the clasping and not to the warmth of your bosom, which I feel sure is warm indeed." Hamilton pulled his hand out of his glove and, before Aaron could say anything, pressed his hand against Aaron's chest. Even through his waistcoat, Aaron could feel how cold Hamilton's hands were. "Just as I suspected," said Hamilton with a sly smirk that always made Aaron want to smack him around a bit (which was likely exactly what Hamilton was hoping for). "You are hot as hell."

As was often the case when he talked to Hamilton, Aaron’s arousal was accompanied by a weary sigh. “I thought we established hell was cold,” Aaron said as Hamilton slid his hand down Aaron’s chest.

“According to Dante.” Hamilton hooked his fingers over Aaron’s waistline. “I thought the grandson of John Edwards wouldn’t like me bringing up any of that Catholic bullshit in his house.”

“Maybe don’t bring up my grandfather right now,” Aaron said as Hamilton tugged him closer.

“Prefer a less proximity between lovers and relatives?” Their hips were flush.

Aaron encircled his arm around Hamilton’s shoulders, pulled him closer and pushed him down. “Not an unreasonable request. I can think of better things to put in your mouth than my grandfather’s name.”

“Kinda gross, kinda into it,” Hamilton said, and down he went.

That first winter, Hamilton came over every other week or so, when he couldn’t find one of his gang to entertain him or the ladies of the city had all closed their door in his face or his studies were going too gallingly slow to warrant wasting an evening on them. Or sometimes, Aaron wouldn’t be Hamilton’s fourth or fifth choice of entertainment but his first, and on those nights, Hamilton beat on Aaron’s door with a fire that inured him against the freezing weather. More or less, anyway. Aaron spent the beginning parts of a few evenings fiercely rubbing feeling back into Hamilton’s feet and giving a lecture on proper deportment in the New York winter that usually ended with Aaron spluttering, “Just wear better fucking socks, man!” as Hamilton tried to shove his freezing toes against Aaron’s neck.

Lafayette ended up knitting Hamilton a pair of socks. Aaron thought about sending a letter of thanks to the Frenchman, but the knowledge that his gift had in any way aided one Aaron Burr would probably result in nothing except the Marquis asking for his socks back.

Being friends with Hamilton was rather like giving food to a stray cat one night and discovering in the morning that it had broken into your house, pissed on your floor, and curled up by your fire. And when you went to confront it, the pitiful thing would just meow at you until you poured it a bowl of cream. Aaron got used to the midnight knockings at his door, that distinctive staccato of Hamilton’s fist beating out a rhythm with such urgency that you’d think someone was dying and Hamilton had been entrusting with knocking up the doctor. But then Aaron would open his door, and Hamilton would fly in, and he’d say something like, “Consider the case of this latest injustice!” and that’s precisely what they’d spend the rest of the evening doing. Mostly. Aaron was content to let Hamilton playact as the demagogue he aspired to be, but Aaron did have certain expectations from his late night guests.

And just as Aaron’s home was hardly Hamilton’s only haunt, Hamilton was hardly Aaron’s only companion.

“Have you read this pamphlet?” Hamilton announced one January evening as he burst into Aaron’s foolishly unlocked boarding home. “Incoherent, illiterate, downright _immoral_ , and—” Hamilton paused, presumably as Miss Johnson’s scream as she dove behind the couch.

“Gentlemen knock,” Aaron said as he tossed Miss Johnson the petticoat she was trying to grasp without leaving her cover. Aaron didn’t even bother tucking himself back into his trousers.

“Door was unlocked,” Hamilton said simply. He raised the pamphlet with an irritated jerk. “Have you read it? Someone’s got to answer him.”

Aaron glanced down at his cock and sighed—which, again, a fairly common occurrence around Hamilton. “Alexander.”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t be me that shuts him up. I’ve got a draft ready to go.”

“Leave.”

“Hold on, I just want to read you this opening, tell me what you think.”

Miss Johnson ended up slipping out the parlor, shooting a look at Aaron that was somewhere in between mortification and utter bafflement. Aaron just shrugged, and Hamilton read the next paragraph.

You would think it would be hard to write a conclusion while getting fucked from behind, but damn if Hamilton didn’t brace himself on the desk and write. He didn’t even smudge the ink. And the only time he complained about Aaron’s roughness—and Aaron, let it be said, was feeling rough indeed that night—was when Aaron wound his fingers through Hamilton’s hair and jerked it back. Then Hamilton protested fiercely. He couldn’t see what he was writing.

Aaron couldn’t be sure that Hamilton came precisely as he dotted his final period, but Aaron wouldn’t be surprised. Hamilton never found anything more arousing than his own cleverness. It was his God and chief masturbation material.

“Not bad,” Hamilton said, sitting back against the desk, his legs sprawled out in front of him. Aaron couldn’t tell if he was talking about the essay or the sex. Hamilton proofread his essay one more time as, without looking, he picked up Aaron’s cravat off the floor and used it to clean his jizz off the desk.

Too thoroughly fucked out to protest, Aaron just rolled his head back and sprawled out on the floor. Hamilton kicked him.

“Come on,” Hamilton said, crawling over to tug on Aaron’s arm. “Too cold to sleep here.”

“‘s fine,” Aaron said without opening his eyes.

“You’ll literally die of hypothermia.”

“ _You’ll_ literally die of hypothermia.”

“Yeah! Probably! Winter is terrible!” Hamilton tugged on Aaron’s arm again, and this time when that didn’t get a response, he just slung Aaron’s arm over his shoulder and hoisted Aaron upright. “Bed,” Hamilton announced, with more pep and vigor than Aaron thought was entirely appropriate post-orgasm. “I’ll even join you, how about that.”

“You just wanna sleep on my mattress,” Aaron murmured as Hamilton helped him to his feet.

“Hell yeah I do, my mattress is shit. How’d you get one so good?”

“Money.”

“That makes sense.”

In Aaron’s bedroom, Hamilton tossed him on top of the covers and then realized that Aaron was supposed to be under them. Aaron kept his eyes closed as he listened to Hamilton curse as he tried to pull the blankets out. There was something very comfortable about lying still while Hamilton fussed about him. It was sort of like if you’d been thrashing in rapids until you finally just gave up and decided to drown. Peaceful. That was what Aaron was trying to get at.

“You could have helped,” Hamilton said as he finally collapsed on the bed beside him.

Aaron rolled over, tugged the blankets tighter around him. “Shh. Just this once. Shh.”

After a moment, Hamilton scooted forward until he was pressed against him, his chest to Aaron’s back, his legs curled against Aaron’s legs. His mouth was hot against Aaron’s neck. “You’re so warm,” Hamilton said, pressing still closer. “I haven’t been warm since September.”

“Spring’ll come eventually,” Aaron said. Might have said. He also might have just mouthed into his pillow and grunted. Hard to say, that close to sleep.

Hamilton fell silent for several moments, which was a miracle somewhere on par with the resurrection of Lazarus. “You think the conclusion is good?” Hamilton asked just as Aaron was nearly nodded off. Lazarus did die again, Aaron supposed.

“It’s good. It’s fine. It’s wonderful. Shut up.”

“I don’t think the last line works.”

“Shut up.”

“John gives me better critical feedback.”

“Then go spoon him.”

“His mattress is worse than mine. How does that even happen? I know he’s got some money. Man just doesn’t want to buy a better bed. Says he doesn’t need one because he’s preparing for war which always makes me feel bad about my whining, like, okay I’m gonna go fight, but I better have a comfortable bed and a temperate climate? Like get over myself, am I right? But goddamn it, I hate the cold. Do you ever get used to it?”

Aaron was beginning to suspect that complaining about Hamilton was not that different from complaining about the weather. It might make you feel better. But it sure as shit didn’t change anything. The best thing you could do was just bundle up and try to enjoy it.

Aaron rolled over and tried to smother Hamilton with his pillow anyway. Hamilton retaliated by shoving his freezing hands up Aaron’s shirt. When Aaron yelped and tried to kick away, Hamilton tackled him. It ended up with Hamilton straddling him, Aaron trying to protect his bare skin until Hamilton grabbed both of Aaron’s hands and pinned them by his head. And then they paused for a minute.

“I mean,” Hamilton said, rocking his hips meaningfully. “We’re both awake.”

And as always, Aaron sighed at both his erection and the cause of it. “Just warm up your fucking hands first, man.”

**Author's Note:**

> God bless America and my history degree.


End file.
